


As the World Falls Down

by Brumeier



Series: Last Men On Earth [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Prompt Fill, Virus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 13:05:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10594605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/pseuds/Brumeier
Summary: LJ Comment Fic for Epistolary prompt:author's choice, author's choice, recording the end of the worldIn which Steve and Bucky share a solitary existence, and Steve reflects on everything he's lost.





	

Steve studied the trike from all angles before he chose a perspective he liked. He pulled the sketchbook and pencils out of his rucksack, and sat down to draw. It was quiet: no cars, no radios, no voices. Just birds singing in the trees and the occasional far-off howl from one of the packs of feral dogs.

The trike slowly took shape on the page as Steve softened the initial rough edges and added depth. He’d noticed it on one of his patrols, sitting forlornly in the middle of the street. It was heavily rusted, but the red paint was still visible in patches. He wasn’t sure yet if he was going to add any color.

Steve let the peace of the space wash over him. When he was focused in on something, like sketching, he was able to let everything else bleed away. It was one of the few times he could exist within the moment without the entirety of his situation crushing down on him.

Once he had the trike down Steve added in background details: the cracked pavement; the accumulation of fallen leaves and random debris that clogged up the storm drain; a feral cat watching from a low-lying tree branch.

When the sketch was done Steve stood up and stretched the kinks out of his muscles. The light was starting to fade and he had to be more vigilant after dark. He stowed his art supplies and slung the bag over his shoulder.

“Let’s go,” he said, keeping his voice low.

Bucky materialized, seemingly out of nowhere, and fell in step with Steve. He never let Steve venture out on his own, but unless they were specifically doing something together he always stayed out of sight, as if he’d be an unwanted distraction.

They walked in silence back to the apartment they were using as a base camp. It was a second floor walk-up, which was a safety measure Bucky insisted upon. They hadn’t seen anyone in over a year, but towards the end what people were left had been pretty unhinged. The super-soldier serum had beaten back the virus, but a shotgun blast to the face wasn’t something either of them would come back from. Better safe than sorry.

The former occupant of the apartment had been an old woman, if the pictures and tchotchkes were anything to go by. As soon as they were inside Bucky did a perimeter check, and then started fixing dinner: dried beef and potato stew.

Steve washed up with water from the collapsible jug, getting the graphite off his hands, and set the table. A lot of the time they camped out, living rough, but sometimes Steve wanted a reminder that they weren’t as feral as the animals. The apartment’s former owner had a lovely set of Blue Willow china that he carefully laid on the white lace tablecloth alongside linen napkins and the good silver. He wondered if she’d ever used it while she was still alive.

Steve and Bucky had a comfortable rhythm between them. They’d always worked well together, and it hadn’t taken long to rediscover that rhythm after Bucky had been liberated from Hydra. He’d become very skilled at cooking on the camp stove, and Steve had made sun-brewed tea the day before to accompany their humble repast.

The final touch was the candles. The sun was already dipping below the skyline and casting long shadows in the room, and Steve didn’t want to waste the oil lamps.

“Need to go hunting,” Bucky said as he dished out the stew. “Almost out of meat.”

Steve nodded. “Supply run tomorrow.”

Meat was easy. There were plenty of animals around, all but the apes safe from the virus that had taken everyone else. Finding fresh vegetables was a bit more difficult, given the explosion of both the rabbit and deer populations, but Steve had gotten pretty good at finding abandoned gardens and root cellars. He was glad they’d decided to travel south for the winter so they didn’t have to deal with snow and icy temperatures on top of everything else.

They ate their dinner without speaking, the only sounds in the room the clink of the silverware against the china and the unsteady whirring of Bucky’s prosthetic arm. The arm had been damaged during a fight with a pair of wolves and, though he’d done his best to fix it, Steve lacked the necessary skills to get it fully functional.

Though there really wasn’t a need for it, Steve washed the dishes after dinner. He tried not to use too much of their water but it felt wrong to leave the good china sitting around dirty.

There wasn’t much to do once dinner had been eaten. No power for the television, even if there’d been something to watch, or for the radio cabinet that dated back to Steve and Bucky’s original time. Steve wouldn’t have minded reading but the old lady’s literary tastes had run to steamy romance novels with bare-chested men on the covers and he wasn’t into that. It was time to hit up the library again.

Steve and Bucky retired to the bedroom. The bed was only a double, which was probably more than enough space for an old woman but even the removal of all the decorative pillows and big-eyed baby dolls didn’t leave a lot of space for two large men. It was still better than sleeping on the floor.

Steve stripped down to his underwear and crawled under the sheets. He reached into his rucksack, which he kept beside the bed, and pulled out one of the three sketchbooks that were inside. Bucky saw, and sighed, and got busy with is nighttime ritual of push-ups and sit-ups on the floor at the foot of the bed.

It was the first sketchbook, from when the world started falling down around them. It had become a chronicle of the end of human civilization, as soon through Steve’s eyes. Men in hazmat suits. A woman clutching her dead child, a dazed expression on her face. People under armed guard at JFK airport during the travel ban.

Bruce had been the first of the Avengers to succumb; his working theory had been that the gamma radiation accelerated the growth of the virus. He’d been working non-stop on a cure, or at the very least a vaccine, but he’d died before he could make much progress.

Tony had taken it really hard. Steve had sketched him from memory: the last one left standing at Bruce’s gravesite, shoulders drooped, defeated in a way Steve had never seen before.

Soon enough there were too many dead for individual funerals. Instead there were mass graves, or towering funeral pyres. Steve had sketched those as well. Bodies wrapped in blankets and stacked inside yawning pits dug by backhoes. Bodies reduced to ash, smoke rising in dark plumes.

Clint and Nat had died holding tight to each other. Sam had been killed by some guy with a gun who thought the only way to fight the virus was to kill everyone around him to stop it from spreading. Tony had gone down inside the Iron Man suit, still trying so hard to save the day. Thor had sent word to Asgard to shut down the bridge. He’d lasted the longest, stoically helping Steve and Bucky bury their friends, and his last words had been for Loki.

Steve ran his fingers over every drawing, the penciled lines sometimes jagged with anger and fear, other times soft with grief and sadness. His hands were shaking and his heart ached but he couldn’t stop because he and Bucky were the last men left on Earth and he needed to bear witness. He needed to remember every fallen friend, even if some of the specifics were starting to fade away.

Bucky had almost been one of them. He’d gotten sick, his altered version of the serum not as pure as Steve’s. Those were the darkest days, when Steve faced a lifetime alone. Eventually Bucky’s enhanced body fought off the virus and Steve never had to make any hard decisions about his own future. As long as they were together Steve could keep going, keep living.

“Enough.” Bucky plucked the sketchbook from Steve’s lap and dropped it back into the rucksack. He took Steve’s trembling hands in his and leaned in to kiss him, hard and insistent.

He’d grieved because Steve had grieved, but Bucky hadn’t really felt the loss of anyone on a personal level. They’d just gotten him back from Hydra, and he hadn’t had time to make friends or get to know any of the other Avengers, not the way Steve had. 

“I’m gonna burn those books,” Bucky said. He straddled Steve on the bed and pulled his shirt off.

“No you won’t,” Steve replied shakily. He ran his hands over Bucky’s exposed skin and felt himself settle. Bucky was real, he was solid, and he excelled at getting Steve out of his own head.

“Don’t try me.”

In another minute Bucky was fully naked and pressing Steve into the mattress. Every part of him that Bucky touched was alive and on fire, and Steve writhed beneath him, wanting to feel more, to feel _everything_ , to know without a doubt he was alive.

Afterwards, boneless and sated and floating on a pleasant post-coital buzz, Steve rested with his head on Bucky’s chest, safe within the circle of his arms. Maybe the world had to end, if just so they could regain the time they’d lost. Maybe it was the only way they could be together.

“Stop thinking and go to sleep,” Bucky mumbled against the top of his head.

Steve nipped at Bucky’s collarbone, but he snuggled in closer and let himself start to drift. He’d gotten used to the silence, the complete lack of ambient noise created by cars and electronic devices and plumbing; in the beginning it had been so hard to sleep without it.

When the burst of static sounded in the living room Bucky was instantly on his feet. Steve followed a second later, blinking muzzily into the dark.

“What is that?”

“Stay put,” Bucky replied. He was already edging to the door without bothering to pull his clothes on first, knife in his hand.

“Fuck you.” 

Steve was right behind him. Once they were in the living room it was easy to find the source of the static: the radio was lit up, a soft glow in the otherwise total darkness, and a woman’s voice was coming through.

_This is Colonel Sam Carter of the SGC. We’re looking for survivors. Does anyone copy? Repeat. This is Colonel Sam Carter of the SGC. We’re looking for survivors. Does anyone copy?_

“Holy shit,” Bucky said. He reached back for Steve’s hand and clutched it tightly. “What the fuck’s the SGC? And how did they get juice to the radio?”

“I don’t know.” 

But he was damn sure going to find out.

**Author's Note:**

>  **AN:** Title from the song _When the World Falls Down_ by David Bowie, from the movie Labyrinth.


End file.
